Against the Current
by Reminscees
Summary: "'Why don't we do a crossword' Alfred said, trying to meet Arthur's gaze and sitting down on the chair next to the bathtub, drenched in Arthur's blood. 'It'll only take five minutes. Or in your case, like ten.' Alfred continued." England is bombed, and Alfred stands by King and Country, proudly armed with a tattered copy of 'The Great Gatsby' and crosswords.


Against the Current

"How many minutes does it take you?" Alfred looked up from the crossword he was completing, rhythmically tapping his pencil against the grey, textured paper. He adjusted his glasses to stare at Arthur, who glared back at him, frowning before sighing and tilting his head back and staring up at the grey sky. There were some Spitfires and Mustangs in the air, and their noise blared over the sound of Arthur's heavy breath as he felt the open wound, fresh from the last weeks' bombings, tighten with the effort of his ribcage.

"I'm sorry?" He managed, his voice scratching with effort.

"How long does it take you to finish these?" Alfred gestured to the newspaper once more, tapping his pencil rhythmically again.

"I'm not sure." Arthur said, closing his eyes to block out the throbbing pain.

"Under ten?" Alfred replied with a bright smile, dropping his forearms to rest on his knees as he leaned towards Arthur.

"Seven or eight, perhaps." Arthur settled on, in a shaky breath, "You?"

"Five."

"Really?" Arthur swallowed.

Alfred nodded hastily and smiled at him, his fringe falling into his eyes from under his military cap.

"'S true." He said, "I'm pretty damn good."

"Are you?" Arthur said, eyes widening as he felt the wound open and seek into his green uniform, "Are you really?" His breath quickened.

An air siren blared.

Arthur stopped breathing.

Alfred jumped at the noise, hurting his ears as he glanced quickly from Arthur to the sky, and from left to right, up and down. He felt Arthur's body lean against his, his eyes shut firmly as Alfred lifted Arthur's numb torso and hovered around it before deciding to hoist it up, forcing one of his arms around Alfred's shoulders as he circled his other arm around Arthur's waist, tentatively holding the unconscious man as he walked, as quick as he could, with worried glances to the sky.

Arthur mumbled something about death and heaven and hell, and Alfred groaned as Arthur coughed up some blood onto his jacket. Arthur's side burned as blood leeched onto Alfred's uniform.

Arthur let his head hang.

"Don't... Don't go to the shelter," Arthur said with heavy breaths, as he swallowed thickly.

Alfred stopped moving as the earth shook with the force of another bomb.

"There's a bathtub upstairs." Arthur huffed as he sent a glare up to Alfred.

_Too much-_

Arthur leaned his head closer to Alfred, squinting slightly, as though he observed a tiny detail on his face. Alfred swallowed thickly and adjusted the tight hold on Arthur.

_This is too much-_

"You're holding me too tight, you idiot." Arthur said. Alfred stared at his hand.

"It hurts." Arthur snapped at him and wrenched himself free.

_Don't-_

_You don't have to-_

"You can go now." He continued, walking away, legs numb and head mad from pain, but determined not to show Alfred this.

The earth shook once more.

Arthur hissed and collapsed.

:::

Arthur awoke slowly, and then all at once, his vision blurred as he adjusted to the sight of Alfred next to him, close, far too close. He jumped back, but he was abruptly stopped by the aching and throbbing pain on his back and in his sides, stitches coming undone as blood seeped into the bath tub. He was still dressed, Arthur noticed, and was merely dumped into the bathtub of Number Ten, the Prime Minister's, at that, white and shining. Alfred sat next to him in a chair, red velvet, as red as the stained towels on the floor.

Perhaps Alfred tried to help.

Arthur touched the wound tentatively. Alfred's gaze followed his hands.

Arthur drew a bright red hand back slowly, staring at it, and then gazing forward, expression cold and stony.

"Well, shit." Alfred clarified, running a hand through his hair nervously. His military cap had been abandoned and thrown on the floor.

Arthur tried to voice an opinion, but the ground and building shook as another bomb hit nearby. Alfred flinched. Arthur blinked slowly and stared further forward, swallowing as he grit his teeth, grinding them in pain, his vision white and blurred.

Blood dripped through his uniform.

"Say, Arthur," Alfred said, "Shouldn't I bandage you?"

Arthur nodded slowly, and Alfred stood up, a little too quickly, and scrambled around, muttering panicked words. He searched through the small cupboard by the sink, and dropped the bandages and iodine and other utensils, neatly packed in a metal case, in his anxiety. He scooped them up, and awkwardly stood by the bathtub, Arthur still staring forward.

Perhaps he wanted to ignored Alfred.

_Perhaps he simply tried to ignore everything around him._

_The bombs-_

_The blood-_

_The war-_

"Hey," Alfred said in a breath, "Shouldn't I-"

"I am not in a position to tell you what you should and shouldn't do." Arthur drawled, eyes still fixed.

Alfred swallowed audibly as he observed the rise and fall of Arthur's chest, the shaky motions and his fluttering eyelids.

"You can leave now." Arthur commanded, finally drawing his eyes up to Alfred, who merely stared back and closed his mouth, compressed his lips in a firm, white line.

"Shut up." Alfred replied, and knelt down beside him. Arthur stared at him, as though he was offended by the words.

Alfred shot out an arm to pull off Arthur's uniform shirt. Arthur tried to object, but as the earth shook once more, he bit him lip and complied, closing his eyes tightly, his vision white and his heart fluttering in his chest. Alfred could feel his pulse flicker as he draped a large and callused palm over Arthur's pale chest, drenched with bruises and scars and blood.

Arthur stared up at him after a long while, and Alfred stared back.

He breathed.

There was a flicker, perhaps more than a flicker-

"You're a shoddy nurse." Arthur said hoarsely, the words had no bite and seemed hollow.

"I can pick out bullets better than this." Alfred admitted, and shrugged his shoulders, ducking his head as he reached for bandaging and wrapped them around Arthur's side, gently adjusting his arms, dripping still with blood into the bath tub, "And I really can't pick out bullets."

Arthur moved clumsily.

"I'm not porcelain." Arthur said with a sharp smile, staring forward once more, numbly.

"Yeah, yeah." Alfred mumbled as he finished and fixated the bandages, looking at Arthur expectantly.

He did not meet his gaze, and merely looked straight-ahead, his gaze cold as ever.

Alfred sighed loudly and slapped his palms on his knees, standing up and looking down at Arthur, who paid him no attention.

"Why don't we do a crossword?" Alfred said, sitting down on the chair next to the bathtub, trying to meet Arthur's gaze.

"It'll only take five minutes. Or in your case, like _ten_." Alfred continued.

Arthur's head slowly turned and met his gaze. His jaw was lax and his eyes glistened strangely in the odd lightening, his skin was pale and he had dark circles under his eyes, which were dark, too, as dark as his arched eyebrows, drawn down to almost intersect with his eyelashes.

They didn't flutter this time.

Arthur did not blink.

Alfred swallowed and grabbed the newspaper from the floor, crinkling oddly and opening it with a single, slamming motion into the air. Humming, he opened it to the page, dug out a pencil from his pockets, and with a smile, he thrust the paper into Arthur's face, who stared intensely at Alfred and tentatively took the paper with a frown. He looked at it with a confusing expression, and then looked up at Alfred once more, who handed him a pencil with a smile.

Arthur stared at the crossword and numbly scratched the paper with the pencil. Alfred bobbing his knee up and down nervously, resting his forearms on his thighs, head hung as he stared with a frown at his shoes. Arthur tapped a rhythm on the paper. Alfred held his head in his hands.

Arthur's hands were shaking too much for him to write anything.

Alfred grabbed the paper and threw it on the floor with a loud noise. Arthur didn't even blink.

"Why don't I read you something?" Alfred said quickly, "I can read you something."

Arthur stared at him and let his head rest against the ceramic of the bathtub with a clang.

Alfred touched inside the pockets of his jacket, searching for his tattered copy of his army-grade novel.

"So," Alfred laughed and opened the first page, "'The Great Gatsby', by F. Scott Fitzgerald."

Arthur gave him a sad smile.

"'In my younger and more vulnerable years," Alfred smiled back at Arthur, "'My father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. 'Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.'"


End file.
